


The Science of Erection

by love_in_mind_palace (mysleepyhead)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock, Crack, First Kiss, First Time, I tried to be funny, John Being an Idiot, John has a thing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Science Boner, Science Kink, Smut, Top John, Voice Kink, almost like a, but much more than that, it might be a kink, science talk, well when isn't he an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 02:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10480422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysleepyhead/pseuds/love_in_mind_palace
Summary: John Watson finds out that he has a certain kind of erotic response to his flatmate's science talk. Poor John Watson. Tsk tsk tsk.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexxphoenix42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/gifts), [Octagoni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octagoni/gifts).



> Written from the prompt : John gets a hard on for anything science related. Like Sherlock will say something about the toxicity of nightshade or something and John gets a scienceboner!  
> Big thanks to my beta Louise for the editing.  
> Thanks to Anya for the name of the fic.  
> I hope everyone enjoys.

  
At the time, it sounded pathetic. The way Bill Murray described it, it was hilarious but John couldn’t help thinking that this particular topic was something which should only exist in jokes.

 

 “The girl,” 

 

Bill was talking about his second girlfriend, Annie. 

 

“She had this real good voice, sounded like wind chimes. But that’s not the whole of it.” 

 

“So what’s the whole of it? Her measurements were like an hour glass? Ahahaaaa. Same old story Bill.” 

 

Alan was already laughing. John had just smirked and sipped at his coffee. Wow the whiskey was good. Bill had glared in Alan's direction and continued. 

 

“The thing is, she loved baking.  Still does, I guess. Not just love though, baking was her passion."

 

Bill had taken another sip of his Irish coffee, continuing with his story.

 

“And whenever she was describing the process of a particular recipe, her voice changed, not particularly changed. But I don’t know - to me, it changed, it was like she was talking about how she was gonna fuck me. I mean I knew the words coming from her mouth were flour, egg, cream and baking powder but my brain started malfunctioning and all I wanted to do was fuck her. Not that that was the only time I wanted to fuck her. But something happened at that moment - all my nerves screaming with one mission.” 

 

“Any happy accidents?” 

 

John felt obliged to ask because he knew Bill was dying to tell anyway. 

 

“Oh yeah,” 

 

Bill grinned, 

 

“Eight out of ten times her description got interrupted and we had it out in the kitchen. Once even in the bathroom stall of a restaurant. She figured it out actually and kept using it as a tease. Not that I was complaining!”

 

The men chuckled and shouted a few jeers at Bill until someone else started a tangent about their latest sexual escapade.  

 

John Watson had been extremely happy at that moment. Feeling smug that his own kinks were normal. As normal as kinks can get, you know. There is no chance in the world that a person talking about making baked goods or in the worst case scenario, talking about dead bodies was gonna excite him. Poor Bill.

 

February 23rd, 2010, John Watson was proved to be completely and utterly wrong.

 

 

 

*** 

 

 

 

When he first walked into Bart’s lab on January 29th, 2010; on a relatively normal looking afternoon, he got swept off his feet by the most gorgeous and only consulting detective in the world, Mr Sherlock Holmes. John still tried to reason with his internal struggle; his bisexuality reminding him about its existence almost immediately.

 

Sherlock Holmes deduced almost everything about his life and John Watson fell hard.

 

Its fine, it’s going to be fine. It’s a minor crush, a stupid adult crush. He is hard to live with anyway... Irritation will overrule crush and it will go away. John Watson will be free and then he will date men and women and whoever he likes. But of course not Sherlock Holmes. 

 

 

Reality is funny and cruel.

 

Because it had been almost a month and John Watson was unable to bring a single man or woman to their flat.  The major reason is, of course, that bringing anyone into this toxic dump was kind of a dilemma. And the second reason, (which John refuses to believe as the major reason, because in his mind he knows it is) is that John simply didn’t want to. 

 

Sarah at the clinic was nice but John couldn’t make himself say yes to the date Sarah was hinting at. He politely turned her down.

 

The girl at the line at Tesco even had her number written on a piece of paper but John went in a different direction and discarded it on his way home. 

 

The bloke at the pub... what was his name - Ronald, was very interested, and John was very close to taking him home or to be taken home. But something tugged at the base of his spine and all he could do was drink up the rest of his drink and paying for Ronald’s drink too. And then he murmured apologies and was out of the pub.

 

 

 

He walked to 221b, the whole time angry over himself and over Sherlock for some reason, (that reason being that he couldn't get the gorgeous man out of his mind). 

 

What he did after, John almost hated himself for it - but it was so good. He went back to the flat, tipsy. He shouldn’t have been tipsy, he only had three drinks.  

 

He heard Sherlock playing the violin.

 

Sherlock had asked something.  He couldn’t hear it and just threw a good night in Sherlock’s general direction. He walked up to his room. Sherlock had murmured something in return and it did not sound like a good night.

 

He remembered locking the door and thanked god later for that. 

John got rid of his clothes hastily. Head spinning, he was horny as hell and did what he thought was best at that moment. And that was shoving his hand in his pants, taking his stiffened prick in his hand and furiously stroking himself to the sound of Sherlock’s violin. He was too drunk to imagine much of anything but managed to visualize milky white skin and brunette curls. 

 

He didn’t last long - he didn’t intend to. He came with his hand still inside his loose boxers, his breathing loud to his ears and his heart thumping. 

 

John remembers wiping his hand onto the bed sheet and then falling asleep to the melody of Sherlock’s violin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next day John woke up with the nastiest headache he had in recent times. He looked at the state of the room - trousers by the door, shirt by the nightstand, underwear stiffened by cum.

Well it could be worse. He at least didn’t grope Sherlock while drunk. Because he vaguely remembered considering it.

 

When John came down to the living room, he could hear Sherlock in the kitchen.

He took the opportunity to take a hot shower. It was Saturday; his off day at the clinic.

 

The hot shower did wonders. His headache was less than forty per cent now - the kind which could be easily treated with aspirin.

 

He came back to the living room to find a glass of water and two tablets by it.

 

“I deduced you would wake up with a headache. You were pretty knackered last night. You wished the sofa good night. I was by the fireplace.” 

 

Sherlock’s sultry voice came from behind him.

 

John almost jumped. Good lord when did he get that close?  

 

He cleared his throat, 

 

“Ah yes, perfect deduction as always. Thank you. Yes I had three drinks.”

 

“How was the date? He was around thirty three I presume; dark hair, thin build.” Sherlock sat in his chair with a nod and a question in his eyes.

 

“How could you possibly... Don’t tell me, is it from some manly deodorant I carried home last night? Some strands of hair on my coat? I actually have no idea how could you know about the hair and the thin build and I don’t think I care.” 

 

John popped the tablets in his mouth and swallowed them down with the water.

 

“You learn pretty fast, John. I have to give you credit.” Sherlock said. Typing on his laptop intently.

 

“Maybe you are rubbing off on me more than I intended you to.” 

 

John murmured and saw Sherlock’s eyes move in his direction for some seconds, eyes squinting, lingering for a moment and then the quicksilver marbles were focused on the laptop screen again; lips a thin line. John had to struggle a lot because despite his irritating headache, his immediate urge was to climb over the table and hold Sherlock’s face and kiss that beautiful mouth and then open the buttons of that tight shirt one by one and bite down...

 

 

John bit his own tongue by accident in an attempt to eat toast while trying to mentally undress Sherlock.  Despite his mildly bleeding tongue, John thanked god again that the conversation was seemingly over for now.

 

This really wasn’t going to end up well.

 

 

“Care to go to Bart’s?” Sherlock asked without looking in John’s direction.

 

“Why? Did Greg call?"

 

“Yes, remember the case with the blue lips? Or according to your blog entry the ‘blue kiss of death’? Something similar happened; I suspect another type of poison."

 

“Well, a little air is what I need. Besides watching you throwing a tantrum in the lab will be almost entertaining.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

John kept turning the pages of the medical journal he was holding while Sherlock jumped in excitement, yelled at Molly and tugged at his own hair in frustration; the usual things.

 

Not that John was actually reading the journal because being stuck at the index page doesn’t quite count as productive reading, or any kind of reading at all.

 

What John actually did was follow Sherlock’s every movement. How his lips stretched over his teeth when he bared his teeth in frustration, the muscles in his neck looking absolutely delectable, or how his dark brown curls stood at a weird angle from where he tugged at it.

John again, wanted to climb the table (why is there always a table between them?) and run his hand through the soft curls on the madman’s head and kiss his eyelids.

 

That sounded really lovely but Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate it if suddenly his flatmate started climbing onto the laboratory desk and approached towards his eyes with puckered lips. Nah, not really a lovely vision...

 

Not really a good idea.

 

So John didn’t do it.

 

But that didn’t mean John is safe.

 

The next thing he knew, Lestrade was walking in the lab and asking Sherlock about the poison and Sherlock started telling him exactly how the nightshade berry extract was used in the slow poisoning process.

 

That’s when it happened, John watched Sherlock saying how the poison mixed in the blood stream had dragged the victim towards his ultimate death.

 

And suddenly John’s trousers were too tight and the oxygen level in the room was a bit low for him. The way Sherlock’s lips wrapped around the word poison or the tilt of his head and the movement of his fingers when he showed Lestrade the transmittance graphs in front of him. The ice blue eyes fixated on the screen, cheeks slightly flushed from the satisfaction of cracking a mystery.

 

The lab got too hot for John and he thanked god, again - this time, for the table between them.

 

Because the memory of a night beside the campfire almost two years ago started flooding into his brain.

_"She had this real good voice, sounded like wind chimes. But that’s not the whole of it."_

 

John couldn’t deny that Sherlock’s deep baritone had him spellbound from the first time he stepped into Bart’s.

 

But the thing that was happening then...

 

_"I mean I knew the words coming from her mouth were flour, egg, cream and baking powder but my brain started malfunctioning and all I wanted to do was fuck her. Not that that was the only time I wanted to fuck her. But something happened at that moment - all my nerves screaming with one mission.."_

 

Some primal part in John’s mind started to wonder what will happen if he grabbed Sherlock by his shirt,  bent his pert arse over the table and started having sex with him right there and then.

 

John derailed his train of thought in a panic because it started to cross into a dangerous territory.

 

Standing in Bart’s bloody lab, John Watson had an erection because his flatmate had just deduced something using some scientific terms.

 

John remembered how he pitied Bill. No one to pity him now.

 

Dear god above, John Watson was truly fucked.

 

Some of the internal panic must have manifested on his face because Sherlock looked at him and his perfect lips form a question.

 

“John. Are you feeling sick?”

 

John gulped and cleared his throat.

 

“What? No, I am okay. I am perfectly okay. I just need a coffee. I will be back in a minute.” 

 

He grabbed his coat hastily, trying to cover his crotch casually; a feeble attempt at concealing his uncomfortable erection.

 

Lestrade was back to the file in his hand but John could feel Sherlock’s eyes on his back.

 

He didn't go to the cafeteria. He never needed a coffee.

 

Where John went instead is the loo. 

 

He found the loo empty, thanked God for the fourth time that day and got inside the first stall he saw.

 

John braced the wall above the toilet and unzipped his trousers, releasing his throbbing cock. The chilled air inside the bathroom making him shiver. The wank was much needed, John worked his hand up and down along his cock pretty fast - a little too fast, which he later regretted. And came within a minute.

 

Tissue paper wiped away the evidence of his arousal, but all the tissues in the world could not wipe off John's embarrassment and guilt.

 

Without lube and because of doing it pretty fast, John felt a burning sensation. Well that’s the cherry on top of all the guilt.

 

He went back to the lab to find Sherlock alone, head hung over the microscope, his curls artfully covering his face. He straightened at the sound of John's footsteps.

 

“Where is your coffee?”

 

And John realized his mistake. He forgot the excuse he left the room with. He said he would be getting coffee. Dammit.

 

 

“I drank it up.” 

 

John tried to deliver as casually as possible - probably failing miserably at that.

Sherlock looked at his watch. Brows furrowed in concentration.

 

“Estimating the time it takes to go to the cafeteria, which is three minutes, give or take, it would be six minutes up and down not to mention adding another minute approximately for the coffee, so it would be seven minutes, at least. Taking in the fact that you came back under five minutes - did you run?”

 

The cafeteria is two floors away and the loo is just twenty feet away.  John should have been slower to at least maintain this stupid façade.

 

“Well I may have ran, may have walked faster. That's really not your damn business, Sherlock.” 

 

John glared at Sherlock, hoping to shut him up.

 

Sherlock did shut up and puts on his coat silently. He slid on his gloves and looked back at John with an unreadable expression to deliver his words.

 

“Well, it really isn't. I only wanted to say for next time, don't rush. You might burn the skin. Come on John. Let's grab some Chinese. You must be starving." 

 

And with that last comment he was out of the door.

 

John wished at that moment the earth would kindly crack and devour him whole because he could almost swear that he saw Sherlock's cupid bow lips twitch in an attempt to suppress a chuckle. Sherlock said burn the skin. Not burn your mouth.

 

He hoped he was wrong because if it's true, then John Watson was fucked.

Like all the other things that keep being forgotten, like the milk outside the fridge or the unwashed plate under the sink, John almost forgot about the particular incident.

 

He fancied Sherlock anyway. So it was set aside as just an I-got-too-horny-for-some-reason. It's not a kink. Bill is an idiot. How stupid he was to think that Sherlock talking science would be a kink. John almost had tears in his eyes recalling the incident. So funny. And Sherlock was talking about coffee. Of course.

 

But life is funnier. 

 

Just like John finds one day that the milk went bad and the smell is maddening now, or the unwashed plate under the sink has a thick layer of fungus over it; things constantly growing even when no one was paying attention.

 

Just like that, John Watson finds out whatever this thing he has, (a kink, and a fetish?) has grown up and gotten quite big while he was desperately trying to forget it. That fucking thing is larger than ever.

 

Luck has never favoured John (well maybe once or twice, but mostly not) and at the end of the day John ended up cursing himself a lot.

 

What happened was embarrassing. Well it's always embarrassing.

 

Sherlock just started to talk to himself about the human nervous system. It must be connected to the case Lestrade brought, it looked like a murder but the killer claimed that it was just an electric nervous stimulation gone wrong.

 

“He is innocent. He is telling the truth.” Sherlock had announced just after Lestrade left. 

 

"But how can I prove that..."

 

***

 

"Cranial nerves!" Sherlock’s voice came over from the sofa after hours of silence. John looked up from his book to find Sherlock’s right hand slightly lifted up in the air.

 

"Cranial nerves, responsible for the nervous system around the neck and head...” 

 

Sherlock’s right hand started to move around the places he mentioned, from his mop of dishevelled curls, then to the pale column of his neck.

Things were not looking good for John.

 

“Olfactory,” Sherlock continued, eyes closed.  

 

"Sense of smell. Not important,"

 

Sherlock brushed away imaginary nerves from his face, like cobwebs. John looked at him helplessly. Things will get out of hand. A tug in his gut warned him. Well he was fucked anyway.

 

"Victims eyes were normal, as normal as a dead body’s’ eyes can be, so optical nerves are out. Unless… Well what do you think, John?”

 

It took John some time to register that Sherlock was looking at him and saying something.

 

“Uh?” 

 

A hoarse sound was all that he could gather. Well that’s like déjà vu again: pants too tight, room too hot. What is even wrong with John Watson? Was he ill? Is this a sickness?

 

“Well, you are a doctor. Any insight?” Two sharp eyes looked at John from behind curls.

 

“No... Nothing. Excuse me Sherlock; I need to lie down a bit.” 

 

He was at the point of not caring. It didn’t matter if Sherlock saw his erection or his very noticeable flush or the slight perspiration on his skin. John needed to go to his room immediately.

 

‘Well, okay then. You should rest, you’ve been feeling sick often lately, John. You should consult a doctor.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes again, his fingers under his chin. The usual thinking position. 

 

John seized the opportunity to walk towards the door, to take his stupid body and the erection as far away as possible and couldn’t help replying in a snarky tone, 

 

“Well I am a doctor myself and I would know what is wrong with me."

 

Well that was a lie.

 

And he was out.

 

If John’s head was not short of blood circulation because of its abundance in his nether region, John would swear later that he heard Sherlock muttering under his breath.

 

“You are a stupid doctor, John.”

 

The routine was the same as before. Rush, release and then buckets and buckets of guilt because John could only think about Sherlock’s lips wrapped around his cock or Sherlock talking about Pavlovian responses while John fucked him in front of the fireplace.

 

If there was a medicine for this shit John would take it within a blink of an eye. But this is not even a thing.

 

John googled Pavlovian responses, voice kinks, everything - only to come up with no results which matched his condition. 

Well congratulations John Watson. John wanted to pat himself; you have developed a new kink slash fetish slash Pavlovian response thingy which has practically zero chance of resolution. Good job, well done. Invading Afghanistan was certainly less stupid.

 

John cursed at god this time.

 

Well the thing is, sometimes, cursing works wonders.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

John developed a new strategy for the next few days. 

 

Totally avoiding Sherlock when he was even muttering hydrochloric acid or just acid for that matter, any vaguely scientific term, John would put on his earphones and block his voice out, or would just excuse himself out of the room. 

 

At crime scenes, he would practically glue himself to Lestrade and not even glance in Sherlock’s direction. He didn’t miss the unsaid question in the DI’s eyes, but John chose to ignore it.

 

After the lights went out at night, it was a party in John’s mind. John was almost impressed at his ability to create sexual scenarios with Sherlock. 

 

On one occasion - which was particularly his favourite, he fucked Sherlock on the bank of the Thames while Sherlock deduced the acidity of the water. 

 

It was glorious and was accompanied with an extra dose of guilt because they had found a dead body two days ago at the exact same spot. John’s mind was creative but disgusting as well.

 

 

 

One day, God decided to listen.

 

 

 

When Sherlock huddled John into a corner of a darkened street and pushed him in the narrow gap between two old buildings, John had a feeling in his gut that it would not end well. Because Sherlock was draping himself over John and John prayed to all his ancestors and hoped that Sherlock would not say anything remotely scientific.

 

Sherlock chose to mutter about gun powder in John’s ear. A special type that was important to this case.

 

Sherlock got to his fifth sentence about purified sulphur and John realized that he was already panting heavily and was extremely hard in his pants too. He had no idea about Sherlock’s condition because with each syllable of potassium nitrate John was involuntarily busy making a tent in his pants. Which took away a lot of blood from his normal bodily functions.

 

So John did what he thought best.

 He wriggled to get Sherlock off his body and ended up hitting him with his elbow, unintentionally of course. 

 

Sherlock let out a muffled shout and the next thing they knew, there was footsteps fading away.

 

“That’s it. You did a fine job of alerting him about us John. Nice work.” Sherlock’s face was flushed.

 

“I... I was just positioning myself." John tried to reason weakly.

 

“Next time, we will carry your chair with us here so you can be more comfortable, Dr. Watson.” 

 

Sherlock looked the other way.

 

Well totally my fault. John cursed himself.

 

Sherlock didn’t share the same cab with him. He said he needed to go to Bart’s.

 

John walked up to the darkened flat of 221b alone and sat on his chair. Never touching his stupid erection.

 

He didn’t know how long he sat in the dark. The sound of a lamp switch flicking on made him look up. Sherlock switched it on and was now hanging his coat on the hook by the doorway. 

 

Sherlock removed his coat and stood in front of John.

 

“I was thinking that I would stretch the fun a bit, maybe get you embarrassed a few more times but that’s proving to be quite harmful to our line of work. You seriously can’t control yourself so I have given it some thought and have come to a decision.” 

 

Sherlock said with a permanent upturn of one side of his lips and started to unbutton his shirt.

 

Inside John’s mind it was practically a riot.

Red alerts going off everywhere while he helplessly tried to grasp at the meaning of Sherlock’s words because his entire rational mind was deducing that Sherlock was implying at something which seriously shouldn’t be discussed between them.

 

Also Sherlock was undressing and John could see his pale chest and dusky pink nipples and all John wanted was to bite down onto his collarbones and maybe take one of the nipples in his mouth…

 

John hit the brakes of his train of thought with all his might and a whimper came out from his mouth.

 

‘What... What are you saying? What are you doing Sherlock?” 

 

John’s mouth fell open because Sherlock had got rid of his shirt and had put one knee in the v of John’s legs on his chair.

 

Sherlock put both his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned in, his mouth a few inches from John.

 

“Well John, as you want me to spell it out, I am doing so.”

 

Sherlock cleared his voice as if in preparation of giving a speech and looked as serious as possible with a naked upper body. John found it quite hard to concentrate on the words because he found himself on the verge of drooling.

 

“You are attracted to me. And I am attracted to you. I think that much is established but neither of us have done anything about it yet. You have a very clear sort of Pavlovian response to my voice, especially when I am talking about science. And instead of acting upon it, you are embarrassing yourself, wasting our case. I am tired of experimenting. Things are getting boring.”

 

Sherlock took a long breath as if giving a final verdict. 

 

“So I have thought a lot about this and the best strategy is that we have sex right now. You are already aroused and thankfully haven’t done anything about it yet. So Dr. John. H. Watson, would you kindly take me to bed?”

 

John just kept staring at the quicksilver eyes moving over his face and tried to form something of a response but realized his mouth was still hanging open. All the red alerts in his head had gone silent. John thought he might have died or fainted because none of this was real. Can’t be.

 

Sherlock’s right hand grabbed John’s jaw gently and he called out loudly, “John!”

 

What? John wanted to ask but nothing but a grunt came out.

 

“I wasn’t talking about coffee in the lab, John. I was clearly talking about your penis. You clearly have a type for dark hair, lean built guys, that is blokes having a striking resemblance to me. You are not a stupid doctor of course. But you are clearly very stupid.”

 

Whatever trance John was in broke and the words that involuntarily came out of his mouth were “Are you joking?”

 

“For god’s sake John," Sherlock’s nose scrunched up in pure frustration and the next thing John knew,  there was a pair of soft, slightly cold lips crushing into his own, sucking at his lower lip. 

 

 

 

 

John froze for a moment. And the lips moving upon him froze too. But it was just a few seconds and John gathered himself together and returned the kiss. 

 

He felt a breath of relief escape Sherlock’s lips as he reciprocated. Both of Sherlock’s hands cradled his face and Sherlock parted his lips to let John slip in his tongue. The sweet tender kiss started to change pace and it didn’t remain sweet for long because John found his hands roaming up and down Sherlock’s bare torso, found Sherlock’s flat nipples hardening into pert buds under his palm.

 

John broke the kiss, panting - déjà vu again, pants too tight, room too hot. Difference is, this time Sherlock Holmes was bare chested, flushed red from neck to jaw and breathing over his face.

 

“Tell me you are not fucking with me. Tell me this is not a joke Sherlock.” John breathed through his mouth.

 

“Well it is me who is kneeling in between your legs half naked with an erection you may have failed to notice. So if it is a joke for you, where does that leave me, John?”

 

John looked up to see Sherlock’s lips curved up in a smile, pupils dilated, that only a thin streak of the ice blue was visible.

 

“And about the fucking part, I was expecting that to happen in less than five minutes”

 

The ball was in John’s court and John wanted nothing but to play.

 

So he did what should have been done long ago.  He grabbed Sherlock’s neck and brought him down for a hard kiss. Sherlock responded with a moan in his throat.

 

 

 

 

 

Then there were a lot of mathematical equations because it was quite a hardship to walk from the chair to Sherlock’s bedroom while neither of them wanted to break the kiss.

Sherlock hit his head, John stabbed his toe; minor casualties were forgotten for the greater good because in less than five minutes, as Sherlock predicted, John was one knuckle deep in Sherlock’s arsehole and Sherlock was squirming under him and talking non-stop about the functions of the left brain.

 

That worked better than any dirty talk John had ever listened to in bed.

 

Result: John was painfully hard. His erection had the ability to kill him at that particular moment.

 

When he dipped three of his lubricant coated fingers inside Sherlock, Sherlock almost started to sob in pleasure and John wanted to cry too. Louder than Sherlock. The whole thing was a tad too overwhelming.  He really couldn’t blame himself.

 

In the next forty five seconds, John was balls-deep in Sherlock and Sherlock’s eyes were almost rolled back into his head. This time Sherlock was talking about vocal tubes.

 

When John started to thrust in Sherlock, Sherlock shut up for some seconds and the next time he opened his mouth, he started to talk about the percentage of fructose in semen.

That would have been awkward but it wasn’t because it made John thrust harder while Sherlock chanted about the position of oxide ions in the open chain form of fructose.

 

 

 

Sherlock came first, unloading himself between their stomachs, taking John’s name over and over. John had to shut him up with a kiss.

 

The only time Sherlock shut up for a whole minute was while John spilled in him. He almost opened his mouth to say something about the normal temperature of the human anus but that just made John thrust harder again and Sherlock’s words came to an unexpected hitch.

 

Later, John trailed one finger over Sherlock’s stomach, touched the finger to his tongue and commented about the lack of any sugary taste in it.

 

“I will take a sample from you later and then I can run tests on your and my semen. I've wanted to do that for so long!’ Sherlock’s face was the face of a man hitting the jackpot.

 

“Absolutely not. You are not getting samples from me.” John shook his head and with both his hands he brought Sherlock's face to his for a kiss while he was still inside Sherlock.

 

“Well, considering the current dynamics of our relationship, do you really think getting a sample will be problem for me?” Sherlock cocked his eyebrows, looking very much shagged out but managing to sound like the bossy git he always is. John sighed.

 

“You are going to make my life hell aren’t you?” John laughed at the madman lying under him with dishevelled hair and a crooked smile on his face.

 

“Umm yes. Guaranteed. As if I don’t make your life hell already. It will just get more intense. You can trust me on that.” Sherlock scrunched his nose.

 

“You are unbelievable.” John leaned down for another kiss.

 

“Says the man with a Pavlovian response to my science talk.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

John kissed Sherlock, Sherlock kissed back eagerly and it was settled.

 

 

 

 

As promised, Sherlock did make John’s life more difficult. Not always. But most of the time.

 

A discussion about fat around the heart valves ended up with Sherlock on all four in front of the fireplace with John grunting upon him was a very pleasant experience for both of them. Usually with the sex, cuddling followed afterwards, accompanied by sappy love confessions which both of them surprisingly found much more than just tolerable.

 

But Sherlock did not stop at that.

 

He sometimes got John hard at crime scenes with unnecessary conversations about inorganic compounds, which eventually ended them up fucking in a darkened alleyway while John complained about the chance of being caught and Sherlock talked about the age of the brick wall he was pinned to.

 

Or Sherlock talking about the exact amount of alcohol in each of the wine bottles behind the counter while being undercover in a nightclub, which ended up in a quick shag in the bathroom stall.

 

Bedroom talk was unique and exciting and downright weird, except to the two of them. 

Because Sherlock Holmes getting his arse pounded while chanting the periodic table with a sweaty John Watson over him may have been normal to them, but it would not be to anyone. Both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were aware of that.

 

But everything was really good. Couldn’t be better. 

 

 

 

To conclude, at the age of thirty six John Watson discovered that he has a kind of erotic Pavlovian response to his flatmate turned boyfriend’s science talk. 

 

John Watson didn’t find Bill Murray pathetic anymore.

 

John Watson thanked god on a regular basis.

 

And John Watson was very happy.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [tumblr](http://love-in-mind-palace.tumblr.com)  
> I run a pretty decent blog.  
> And I appreciate comments and kudos.


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